The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Ch. 1

  Ch. 2

  Ch. 3

  Ch. 4

  Ch. 5

  Ch. 6

  Ch. 7

  Ch. 8

  Ch. 9

  Ch. 10

  Ch. 11

  Ch. 12

  Ch. 13

  Ch. 14

  Ch. 15

  Ch. 16

  Ch. 17

  Ch. 18

  Ch. 19

  Ch. 20

  Ch. 21

  Ch. 22

  Ch. 23

  Ch. 24

  Ch. 25

  Ch. 26

  Ch. 27

  Ch. 28

  Ch. 29

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from WORTH DYING FOR (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)

  About the Author

  Books by N. Gemini Sasson

  THE

  CROWN

  IN THE

  HEATHER

  The Bruce Trilogy:

  Book I

  N. GEMINI SASSON

  CaderIdris Press

  In 1290, Scotland is without a king. Two families - the Bruces and the Balliols - vie for the throne.

  Robert the Bruce is in love with Elizabeth de Burgh, the daughter of an adherent of the ruthless Longshanks, King of England. In order to marry her and not give up his chances of someday becoming King of Scots, Robert must abandon his rebel ways and bide his time as Longshanks' vassal.

  But Edward, Longshanks' heir, doesn't trust the opportunistic Scotsman and vows to one day destroy him. While quietly plotting his rebellion, Robert is betrayed by one of his own and must flee Longshanks' vengeance.

  Aided by the unlikely brilliance of the soft-spoken young nobleman, James Douglas, Robert battles for his throne. Victory, though, is never certain and Robert soon learns that keeping his crown may mean giving up that which he loves most-his beloved Elizabeth.

  THE CROWN IN THE HEATHER.

  Copyright © 2010 N. Gemini Sasson

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Author.

  For further information: www.ngeminisasson.com

  Cover design by Lance Ganey: www.freelanceganey.com

  In memory of Phyllis Jean Sasson

  Historical Note

  In the year 1286, King Alexander III of Scotland was an aging man, whose two sons from a previous marriage had already died. His daughter, who had been married to King Erik of Norway, had also died two years prior, leaving behind an infant daughter named Margaret. The succession of his line was in peril and he vowed to waste no time producing another heir.

  And so on a storm-battered night, he left royal Edinburgh Castle, took the ferry across the Forth, and rode against caution from Inverkeithing toward Kinghorn, stirred by the need to cool his lust on his new French bride, Yolande. Forging anxiously ahead, blinded by a driving rain, Alexander became parted from his companions somewhere along the coastal road. His horse, startled by lightning, lost its footing.

  The next morning, the king’s broken body was recovered at the foot of the ragged sea cliffs. Scotland mourned, not only for the loss of its king, keeper of peace and progenitor of prosperity, but for troubles yet to come.

  Little Margaret, the Maid of Norway, was Alexander’s only direct descendent. Her dowry would one day be the whole of Scotland. South of the border, King Edward of England, also known as Longshanks, whose firstborn son was but two at the time of Alexander’s death, sniffed an opportunity.

  It was agreed between the Guardians of Scotland and Longshanks that Margaret of Norway should be put aboard a ship and brought forthwith to her ancestor’s homeland. By grace of a papal dispensation, she would marry, in due time, Longshanks’ oldest son, thus ensuring peace between Scotland and England. Cognizant of the advantages of such a union and yet prudently wary of its implications, the Guardians were, however, shrewd enough to force Longshanks to swear in writing that the two countries would remain separate.

  But the little girl, on whose slight shoulders so much depended, had not yet reached its shores when she fell gravely ill. The Scottish escort that awaited her in Orkney to take her to Scone to be crowned was never able to complete its mission. On the 26th of September, 1290, she died.

  Dozens put forth their claims to the crown. In the end, two powerful Scottish families possessed the strongest ties to royal blood: the Bruces and the Balliols. The late King Alexander had favored Robert Bruce, fourth of that name, also known as Robert the Competitor. But not everyone was convinced a Bruce should become King of Scots, including Longshanks.

  If a Bruce wished to call himself ‘king’, he would have to fight for the right to do so.

  Prologue

  Robert the Bruce – Atholl, 1306

  Each night when I lie down, bathed in the rank sweat of a day’s pressed march, I am so weary I neither stir nor dream in my sleep. For weeks, I have felt neither the cushion of a pillow beneath my cheek, nor the caress of a blanket upon my shoulders. Sometimes my bed is a pile of bracken. Sometimes a slab of stone. Come morning, I am soaked with dew. I feel the barely warm light of the sun upon my soiled face. Hear the familiar murmurs of wretchedness. Smell the ungodly stench of bodies and I am awake.

  Now five hundred, we live off the land, taking only what we need. We stay far from the towns and main roads, keeping to the highland heather and dark forests. I had often looked upon the hungering poor as I passed through the cramped, stinking streets of London, but with nothing more than a fleeting twinge of pity and a wave of disgust. Now, I think, I am living a worse life than they, for I envy of them whatever little they possess: a place to sleep, a roof to shed the rain, a stolen loaf of bread. Arrows and spears be damned, I would sell my armor for a stew of peas and carrots or a handful of radishes and some salt.

  This is the army of Scotland and I... am their king, Robert the Bruce, sixth by that name and grandson of Robert the Competitor.

  Once, I was Longshanks’ sworn man. Now I am his mortal enemy. Beaten to the hills, hiding in the forests of Atholl, clinging to existence.

  What irony that in these months since I have been king, not for a day have I lived like one. A crude living it is, especially when we have no plan or provisions to begin with. The heather is a beautiful place, but when you are cold at night and hungry all day, beauty becomes nothing.

  Our sick and wounded we are bringing with us. Although they slow us, to leave them behind is to offer them up as quarry. The days are long, the miles endless, our feet and backs weary and aching. It is the pinnacle of summer and hot as a blacksmith’s forge. The rain so usual of Scotland is not to be seen. Every night when we halt, the foot soldiers pull off their shoes and nurse their raw, oozing blisters with poultices. The air reeks with the stink of moss and herbs boiled and mashed into a paste, or ointments made from whatever animal fat they can scavenge.

  Often, I wonder if I will ever be able to shape this brawling, fractured group into one united army. My own men, those on foot from Carrick, limp from wounds not yet fully healed. I hear some of them say that maybe it was not so bad living alongside Englishmen and paying them taxes to keep the peace. The Highlanders, who would never entertain such a notion, squawk at the hobbling stragglers
. Our noblemen complain of the company, including each other. Along the way we abandon many a lame horse, so that fewer and fewer of us have one. Most of the time, we allow our womenfolk to ride, but even they take to foot eventually, giving their mounts to those too battered or ill to keep pace.

  I have kept my own horse, the sturdy, gentle gray I claimed at Methven, so I can ride the length of the column several times a day to encourage my men on. For reprieve, I often settle in beside Elizabeth and the other women in the middle of the column. Of them, only sweet Marjorie whimpers, sometimes, about the grinding in her empty belly. To placate my daughter, I send good James Douglas to her and he lets her ride in the saddle with him as he teaches her French to pass the time. Although only ten years of age, she is an apt pupil, enamored of his gentle manners, and in a matter of days she has learned enough to converse with him in French. I cannot hear most of their conversations, but whatever he says to her makes her laugh and for the kindness I am grateful to him. James is protective of her, like an older brother always watching over her – holding her hand when they cross a stream on foot, brushing the dirt and grass from her clothes when she falls, bringing her wild strawberries to eat, forget-me-nots to entwine in her hair, or brooms of bell heather to shoo away the flies. With a young girl’s bright curiosity for adventure and pleasure in a newly found friendship, only Marjorie appears to flourish on this weary and dreadful Exodus. The rest of the women ride or walk in silence, eyes ever watchful, their shoulders forced downward by the constant strain of weariness, yet never complaining.

  I have never seen the shadows so deep beneath Elizabeth’s eyes. I talk to her of how we will go south to Kintyre and rest there a bit before going on to Ulster where we will be safe and wait out the winter, but it is as though she is a hundred miles from me. She gazes into the mirroring depths of the lochs we pass by – Errochty, Tummel and Tay – as if some other voice from there speaks to her more plainly than mine. At night I hold my wife – her small, fragile form aligned perfectly to my own. She is restless, starting at every tiny sound, irritable come morning. I cannot reach or comfort her. I cannot set free the troubles of her soul, for I know that because of my ambitions I have caused them. In making her my queen, I have delivered to her naught but a shattered kingdom caught up in despair. No more is she the Elizabeth I once knew – and it is my doing.

  The morning mist lies heavy as a blanket of January snow across the valley below our camp. We all stir lazily and might have slept longer but for the midges diving at our ears and agitating the horses, which stomp and swish their tails. Fog chokes the road ahead and so we break fast and wait for it to lift.

  Alone, Elizabeth claims a flat rock as her seat to avoid the damp ground. Around her, the junipers glisten with droplets of dew on a hundred spider webs. Hunched over her bowl of thin porridge, she sips slowly, perhaps trying to convince herself it is a meal worth having. Knowing her as I do, cold swill and stale bannocks are hardly a temptation to her, no matter how famished she is.

  Silent as a stalking cat, James Douglas moves to stand some ten feet from her, his arms straight at his sides. Impatient for her attention, he drums his fingers on his legs until she lifts her eyes and nods at him. He sinks to his knees. I am tending to some of the horses, close enough to see them through the drifting mist, yet far enough away that I cannot hear them speak. Men cross in front of me and I drop the reins of the horse whose foreleg I have been inspecting.

  James crouches before her, his dark hair glinting with the morning damp. He slides a letter from his shirt, then tucks it hastily back beneath. She shrugs, looks down and away. He creeps closer and says something more. An easy grin flickers across her lips. He reaches out to her. She extends her hand. Slowly, he leans forward to gaze at her with those haunting, pale eyes, smiling faintly. Then his lips brush her delicate fingers. He bends his neck, so his forehead rests on her knuckles.

  The longer the touch between them lingers, the more my neck burns. At Kildrummy, I had seen Elizabeth glance down the table toward him, but never thought anything of it then. He is young. Closer in age to her than me. Soft-spoken and gentle in manner.

  “Sire,” Boyd says, startling me, “the Abbot of Inchafray’s come. With sacks stuffed full of bread. Can’t you smell it? Fresh bread, I tell you. Not a spot of mold.”

  I beckon to an idle soldier and hand him the reins of the horse. “Give the abbot my thanks, Boyd. Pass the food out to the wounded first, then the women – they’ll need their strength for the hills.”

  “He says we’re close to Tyndrum. There by noon if we leave now. Says he can lead us there and on through the Pass of Dalry. Should I tell them all to make ready?”

  As I look again toward James and Elizabeth, they are speaking in whispers, strangely intimate. Are they so enthralled with one another they cannot notice the rest of the world?

  Boyd turns to see what has my attention so fully. He scratches his belly and grunts.

  “I’ll tell them to wait.” He ambles off, thumbs hoisting his sagging belt.

  I bound over a pile of rocks and send a stone scuttling to nick James in the knee. He leaps up and jerks in a bow, his cheeks flushed.

  “James, go tell Boyd and the Abbot of Inchafray we’ll move out within the hour, so long as the fog lifts. I’ll not take any chances, having the womenfolk with us.”

  He leaves without protest, his hand pressed over the lump beneath his shirt.

  Slowly, I turn toward Elizabeth. “The letter.”

  But she is still watching James, unaware of my words. “He’ll make you a fine knight one day. His heart is true.”

  “Dare I ask what you mean by that? Or do I want to know?”

  “What? Robert...” Her eyebrows weave together in perplexity.

  A curse on my heart for being so near my tongue. I wanted the words back before they reached my own ears. I want to believe in their innocence, but...

  “The letter, Elizabeth. What was in the letter?”

  “Nothing that regarded you. This is not the time for petty jealousies, Robert.”

  “Then dispel them. Tell me – what was in it?”

  She rises to her feet. The hem of her gown is tattered – torn away strip by strip for bandages to just above her calf. Her feet are bare and calloused, but she has taken care to wash away yesterday’s road dust. The small oval of her chin works back and forth. “I haven’t the will right now to argue with you over this. But since you must pry – it was from his brother Archibald. When James came to Lochmaben to find you, he asked me to deliver a letter to his brother. The reply eventually came to Kildrummy, where I was. It was one of the few things I brought with me when you sent for us to join you, because I knew he would be wherever you were. Just now he was thanking me. That’s all, Robert. Don’t make more of it.” She crosses her arms over her breast and turns her back to me. “If you doubt me, ask him yourself.”

  Struck dumb, I shuffle my feet. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I... I didn’t mean...”

  Softly, she sighs. Her shoulders slump forward. “Perhaps I should not have come.”

  I reach out to trace the twining ridge of her braid where it lies against her neck and loops over her sunburned shoulder. Then I take her by the arms and turn her toward me, even though she resists. In those ever-changing eyes of pale greenish gray, I see the worries she yearns to share daily, but keeps to herself. I let go of her and gaze down at my empty hands. “In those weeks after I left you at Kildrummy in Nigel’s care, I had no idea where you were... if they had taken you, if you had fled to safety or boarded ship. Thirty days may as well have been thirty years. Elizabeth, I should have told you... before I went to Scone, how hard this was all going to be. I knew, but I could never say, because... Ah, Christ... hard, aye, but God knows I never thought we would be running like this, not knowing where to go, who to trust, when to fight or hide... never thought I would talk of leaving Scotland altogether. What an awful mess I have stirred up in trying to put things aright.” I meet her eyes again, and
for the first time in months, see her tender and caring heart there just as I once had at every casual glance. “Before I can fight for what is ours – yours and mine, Scotland’s – first, I must know you’re safe.”

  She presses her small palm flat against the middle of my chest. “Do you say that for my ears, Robert... or your own?”

  “I have thought of nothing but your safety since I left you at Kildrummy.”

  She shakes her head. “When you think of me, perhaps. What you think most of, though... what matters most to you... it isn’t me.”

  Aye, one thing matters to me, above all else, and for so long a time I have fought it and pushed it away... and then it found me even while I denied it.

  “And this about me,” I say, “it frightens you, does it?”

  “No, I’m not frightened of you, Robert. I’m frightened of what will happen to us.”

  I pull her to me, wanting to reassure her, tell her somehow, that all will be right in the end. She lays her head on my chest. Her ear is at the perfect height to hear my heart beating.

  “Elizabeth, whatever you think, I’ll not risk losing you. I swear it to both you and Our Lord. But I’m not ready to fight again. Not after Methven. Not yet. It’s too soon. We’ve lost too many men and have neither the weapons nor the strength to defend ourselves.”

  “But you will fight. You’ll have to. You... we... we can’t keep running forever.”

  She draws back, gazes at me softly as her lips part, then quickly buries her head against my chest again.

  “What, my love? Something else?” I say.

  “’Tis a small thing,” she murmurs. “It can wait.”

  “You’ll tell me tonight then?”

  “Aye, tonight,” she whispers. “When we have more time.”